


Deutzia

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-13
Updated: 2015-05-13
Packaged: 2018-03-30 10:22:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3933196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frodo prefers to read outside for a certain gardener.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deutzia

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It’s difficult to concentrate.

He doesn’t need to, not really—he’s read this passage a hundred times. He could repeat most of Bilbo’s words off by heart if he wanted to, but that never dulls the pleasure of reading them again. Most of Bilbo’s stories are gathered in his book—the big, overflowing one with frayed edges and the hefty leather cover—but there are little leaflets like this, old notes that don’t seem _quite_ finished: abandoned or forgotten. Frodo reads them partially because they appeal to him, of far off lands and strange creatures, and mostly because he _misses_ Bilbo very dearly, and sometimes, he can still hear Bilbo’s voice in his head, whispering of grand adventures. 

But he’s picked a bad spot for it. By the hearth, in Bilbo’s old armchair, over the table for tea or even curled up in bed, Frodo could immerse himself in the words. But his favourite pastime has become to do so outside, perched on the rickety bench that Bilbo used to sit on and smoke, with the sun beating down and the clouds rolling slowly past the hills. Hobbiton is lovely this time of year, peaceful, especially the view from Bag End. In the distance, Frodo can see children playing across the pond and pigs grazing in the field. It’s a high contrast from the places in Bilbo’s tales. 

And it’s not why Frodo sits outside at all. 

He sits outside, whether to read or write or simply bask in the sun, so he can have _Sam_ in his peripherals, cutting away at the garden. 

Sam’s tending to the hedge right now, on the other side of Frodo’s gate, his fat fingers working deftly through the vines. Bilbo was always proud of their gardens, and for that, Frodo likes to keep them lush and well, but he’s never had the way with plants that Sam does. When Bilbo left, it never even occurred to Frodo to cancel the Gamgees’ work. He liked the old Gaffer well enough, but Sam...

Sam is the reason Frodo wanders outside in the late mornings, the beginning of the afternoons. He always thinks he’ll invite Sam in for tea, but the words never quite make it out of his mouth. Someday, perhaps. Sam used to come in sometimes, when they were both little, and Bilbo would teach him his letters and sing them both songs. Frodo’s never fancied his voice as good as Bilbo’s, but he’d like to rebuild that nonetheless. He’d like to build a great many things with Sam. 

But it isn’t how _good_ hobbits are, and for all of Frodo’s failings, he’s still a _hobbit_ at heart. Old habits die hard. He isn’t the brash dwarves of Bilbo’s stories that come right out and kiss the men they love, everything always working out in the end. Sam has a life outside of Bag End, outside of Frodo, and when he finishes with that hedge and the begonias under the window, he’ll wander back down the path, smiling his usual goodbye, sturdy and handsome and oblivious to his master’s adoration. 

He stops suddenly, just to stand up properly and straighten out his back. He puts his broad hands on his hips and thrusts his stomach forward, and Frodo has to stifle his grin, half expecting to hear the crick of stiff bones. But Sam’s all soft curves and gentle sighs, and he exhales again to throw his arm up over his brow. He wipes it clear on his white sleeve, face glistening with sweat from working hard and long with no relief. Not for the first time, Frodo entertains the lewd daydream of strolling over, leaning over the gate and licking the sweat right off Sam’s sweet skin, but of course, he’d be tossed right out of the Shire on his rear if he were to behave so naughty. 

It’s the Brandybuck in him, he likes to blame. That and Bilbo’s freedom—all those strange ideas about loving dwarves, and elves that gave up their endless life for mortal souls. And then, of course, there’s Sam, who’s much too tempting for someone as weak to forbidden joys as Frodo. 

A friendly smile tugs at the corners of Sam’s lips, his eyes full of warmth. His arm falls down again, leaving his light curls slicked across his forehead. He asks, in that fond, charming voice of his, “Something I can help you with, Mr. Frodo?”

Frodo can feel his cheeks turning pink—he’s been caught staring. He smiles back on instinct to deflect, and a little because Sam always makes him smile. He doesn’t know quite what to say. This is a guilty pleasure. He wonders fleetingly what would happen if he took Sam gently inside the gate, laid him down amidst the flowers, and curled against his shoulder in the warm air, or squirmed along his side and pressed their bodies flush together. 

A shiver runs through Frodo, and he says only, “I’m sorry.”

Sam doesn’t ask for what, just lets it slide. His eyes fall to the stack of parchment in Frodo’s lap, and maybe he thinks that Frodo was simply staring off into the distance, lost in a story. In a way, he was.

Sam asks, “Are there elves in that one?”

A bubbling chuckle comes out of Frodo’s lips, and he shakes his head lightly, answering, “Not this time, Sam.” He knows how much Sam loves elves: an ideal he could never match. He can’t be a nice hobbit lass that Sam can settle down with, and he can’t be an enchanting immortal to seduce Sam away. He lowers his eyes back to the page.

So Sam returns to working, and Frodo returns to ‘reading,’ always admiring his Sam out the corner of his eye, steadily making his life more beautiful.


End file.
